The Bar Watcher (24 page)

When the principle theme of
Swan Lake
came welling into the room, he reached over and took my hand and held it throughout the rest of the score. Okay, I know a lot of guys who'd have been running for the insulin about that time, and a lot more would think it was schmaltzy, and gooey, and maybe even B-movie corny. But it was also sweet and touching and—even at the risk of being thrown out of the Butch Gay Men's Union—romantic.

About eleven o'clock, as
Francesca di Rimini
was ending, Toby turned to me and said, “Would you like to go to bed now?”

Being occasionally slow on the uptake, I must have looked a bit startled when I said, “No… No, I'm not tired at all.”

A slow smile spread across his face.

“I meant together.”

I got up from the couch and extended my hand, which he took. I started to go turn the stereo off, but he said, “No, leave the music on. Please.”

I did.

*

Everyone has heard the old jokes about having sex to Ravel's
Bolero
, but if you've ever tried it and liked it, let me recommend Tchaikovsky's
1812 Overture
. Time things just right, and it's got Bolero beat by a mile!

We lay there for quite a while after the music stopped, still not saying much. Toby had a wonderful air of calm and quiet about him, so the silences weren't awkward, just…quiet. My hand, which had been resting palm-down on his washboard stomach, slid idly up his chest to his neck, and I casually fingered the chain he always wore.

“Nice chain,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“A story behind it?”

Toby turned his head to look up at the ceiling.

“It was my mom's,” he said. “Actually, my grandmother's, originally. It had a little locket on it, but I took it off. It's all I have left to remind me of them,” he added quietly.

I knew well enough not to go any further on that subject right now. I could tell it was a very private thing for him, and I figured if he ever wanted to tell me about it, he'd do it on his own.

After another moment of silence: “I always wanted to be a musician,” he said. “Not a rock star or anything like that. More like the stuff Tchaikovsky did…classical.”

“Do you play any instruments?”

He turned on his side to put his head on my shoulder.

“No,” he said. “My folks could never have afforded any instrument—or even lessons. And the school I went to was way too small to have a band.”

“Well,” I said, “it's never too late.”

Toby looked up at me without moving his head.

“No, it isn't, is it? Maybe I will.”

I was really curious to know more about Toby—where he came from, if he had any brothers and sisters, that sort of thing. I had asked him where he came from but hadn't gotten a direct answer, just “a small town.” I could sense he had places inside him where he wouldn't—or couldn't—let anyone go. There had been a suggestion of it when he mentioned his mother, and we didn't know one another well enough yet for me to have a more sure sense about where those boundaries were.

I was pretty sure he didn't have much in the way of formal education, but what he lacked in “sophistication” he more than made up for in gentleness, sweetness, and a kind of inner serenity.

We continued lying there for another fifteen minutes or so, until Toby said, “Well, I'd better be getting home,” kissed me, and got out of bed to begin putting his clothes on. I watched him dress in the half-light that filtered down the hall and through the open bedroom door. God, but he was a beautiful specimen!

Again I couldn't help but…
compare
isn't the exact word, but I suppose it comes closest to what I was doing…Toby and Jared. I'd thought before that if Jared were a horse, he'd be a Clydesdale—all mass and power. Toby was a Thoroughbred, sleek and strong and fluid.

I got out of bed, put on my robe and walked him to the door.

“Thanks again for the record,” I said. “That was really nice of you.”

He smiled, little-boy pleased.

“I'm really glad you like it,” he said. “And thank you for the introductions to Mr. Tchaikovsky. He's awesome.”

You're kind of awesome yourself, Toby
, I thought, but only smiled.

We hugged goodnight, and I opened the door.

“Give me a call,” I said.

“I will,” he replied.

I stood in the doorway, watching him walk down the hall. When he reached the stairwell, he turned, smiled and waved, then disappeared down the stairs. I closed the door and returned to bed.

But late as it was, I didn't go right to sleep.

You're doing it again, aren't you?
my mind asked.

Doing what?

Your “Is this Mr. Right?”
number.

Well, actually, I wasn't…or so I told myself, anyway. As great as Toby was, and as much as I enjoyed being with him, like Giacomino—and that was a lousy comparison—there was either not something there that should have been, or there was something there that shouldn't have been. I had no idea which, and I was more than a little pissed with myself because of it.

I realized suddenly—again—that I didn't have Toby's phone number. Not only that, I didn't even know his last name.

And what do you do for a living, Mr. Hardesty?
my mind asked, sarcastically.

Well, I thought in my own defense, the last-name issue has never come up, and I think asking a guy for his phone number is kind of pushing it. If he wanted me to have it, he'd have given it to me.

Yeah, but why wouldn't he want you to have it?
my mind countered.

Glancing at the clock, I was surprised at how late it was. I had to get some sleep.

All right, already
, I told myself.
I'll ask him for it. Now let's drop it, okay?
And, turning over on my stomach and bunching the pillow up under my head, I went to sleep.

*

Bob called shortly after I got up Sunday morning to ask me to join him and Mario for brunch, which I did. Other than that, it was a fairly quiet Sunday. I stopped in to the office for a few minutes after brunch to finish typing up my weekly report to O'Banyon, and was embarrassed by how little I had to say. I felt like I wasn't earning what I was being paid, and considered telling O'Banyon so.

But then I realized that, one, I was doing whatever I could, and, two, this case was not over yet. The bar watcher was still out there somewhere, and I knew I would find him, eventually. The only question was how many others would die before I tracked him down?

*

Another week went by. I noticed in Tuesday's paper the Chicago Symphony was coming to town and made a note to see if Toby would like to go. I cursed myself again for not having his telephone number so I could just call and ask him.
What a fucking poor excuse you are for a PI, Hardesty
!

I thought about just driving over to his place—at least I knew where he lived, from having driven him home after our first night together—and slipping a note under his door but decided against it. I'd wait until he called.

I talked to Jared a couple times. Three or four of his bartender contacts had reported incidents—fights, heated arguments, some drunken loudmouths making trouble—but none sounded like the kind of thing that would draw the bar watcher's attention. Either that, or he just hadn't been there to see it happen. Not every argument or fight in a bar involves the deliberate cruelty that had gotten five men murdered.

And despite the trepidation that always preceded examining the paper every morning for possible new victims, there was nothing that said: “Oh-oh, here he is!” What did set my mental alarms off, however, was the increasing number of young, single men appearing in the obituaries as dying of “pneumonia” or “complications from pneumonia” or “after a long illness” or simply “in St. Anthony's (or City General or Atherton Memorial or…) Hospital.” I had a chilling premonition that what had killed John Peterson was like the cow that kicked over Mrs. O'Leary's lantern, and that somebody had better start yelling “Fire!” pretty soon.

On what I sensed was far more than a whim, I went back over the entire week's papers, making a list of the names—there were twelve. I wrote them down, put them in my shirt pocket, and headed out the door for Rage.

*

The disappointment I felt when I saw that Troy was not on duty rather surprised me—I hadn't known I'd care whether he was there or not. The guy behind the window was someone I'd not seen before, a very exotic-looking guy with skin the color of coffee-with-cream and shockingly blue eyes. Oh, yes, and—surprise!—a body to kill for.

I identified myself and asked to see the manager. The guy nodded, picked up the phone under the counter, said something into it I couldn't hear then replaced the receiver. He gave me a smile any toothpaste-ad executive would have given his arm for, and said, “Jim will be right with you.”

“You're new, I gather,” I said, while waiting.

He smiled again. “I hope it doesn't show.”

He had a slight accent I couldn't quite place. Not like Toby's, which was regional American. This one was…well, not American.

“You could have fooled me,” I said. “Is Troy still around?”

He nodded. “His day off.”

At that point, the door opened, and the guy I'd seen waiting to go in to interview with Giacomino— What was his name? Jim…Hicks—came out to greet me.

“Dick,” he said, as though we'd known each other for years—which, on having another good look at the guy, I wished we had, “good to see you again. We…well, I guess we didn't formally meet, but we saw each other the day I came to interview for the job.”

We shook hands, and he motioned with his head toward the door.

“Come on in to the office, where we can talk.” He smiled at the guy behind the window, who leaned forward to press the buzzer to open the door, and I followed him into the office.

I noticed immediately the carpet had been replaced and the wall with the two-way mirror repaneled. Hicks was apparently making a concerted effort to erase all traces of his predecessor—which, in this case, was a good idea. Comstock's painting was gone, too, as were the framed photos of him and various celebrities that had hung behind his desk. In their place was a very nice seascape with a small light above it. And on the desk was a framed color photograph of Hicks and the guy behind the reception counter.

He's married, damn it!
Curses…foiled again!

Motioning me to a seat, he went around to sit behind the desk. He looked a lot better there than Comstock had. He noticed my look at the picture.

“Christophe,” he said with a smile. “We met in São Pãolo six years ago, and haven't been out of one another's sight since—and we don't plan to be. His being able to work here was one of the conditions of my taking the job, and I guess the partners liked the idea after how Comstock had made this his own little brothel.” He paused, leaned back in his chair. “So, what brings you here today, not that you're not always welcome.”

I reached into my shirt pocket and got out the list of names.

“Could you run these against your membership list? I'm curious how many are on it.”

“Sure,” he said, leaning forward to take the list. He looked at it and frowned. “Jake Hancock.” He shook his head. “Jake's dead, you know. Just this past week.”

“I know,” I said. “They're all dead.”

He looked at me in silence, and I could see his face grow pale.

“And you think…?”

I nodded.

He picked up the phone and pressed a button.

“Christophe, can you come in here? Now?” He sat back, face serious, shaking his head slowly. “I knew it!” he said, more to himself to me.

The office door opened, and Christophe came in, looking a bit puzzled. Hicks half-rose from his chair to hand him the list.

“See how many of these are on our membership roster, would you, Babe?”

“Sure.” Christophe looked at it. “Jake Hancock. Jake's dead. Just this past week. We went to his funeral.”

See what six years together does?
I thought.
I'll bet they finish each other's sentences
. And I thought of how Chris, my ex, and I used to do the same thing. And part of me was kind of sad, and very, very envious of them.

Wimp!
my mind taunted.

Screw you!
I replied silently.

“I'll be right back,” Christophe said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I turned my attention back to Hicks.

“What did you mean when you said ‘I knew it'?”

Hicks sighed and sank back against his chair.